I love the old warehouses. New Concordia Wharf. Wheat Wharf Apartments. Butlers Wharf. My heart lifts when I see the bricks and the tall windows. There is always the feeling that something is missing. Atmosphere. Too still. Too quiet.

Dodging under Tower Bridge I continued past Hays Galleria, ('Mum, mum', says a boy pointing at HMS Belfast, 'Can we go on the plane? Please, mum?'), until stopped by a metal fence. Back through Hays Gap into Hays Lane where A.J. Pain Waste Management nearly put me six feet under. St Olaf's stairs, too, were filled in by wooden blue containers belonging to builders.

The smell of steamy fish and chips emanated from the Mug House under London Bridge. Little blue and green spots dance under perspex along the pavement.

Apostolides commercial removers were parked up outside the Cathedral. One asleep in the cab; another sprawled across the open back, head on bag, having forty winks.

Over the Millennium Bridge (why do people insist on running at midday in the school holidays and complain that there are too many people getting in their way?) and through the side streets to Ludgate and Fleet Street.

The King Lud which tragically became a Hogshead is now called Leon. But thankfully the Cheshire Cheese is much the same as it was when it was rebuilt after the Great Fire in 1666. (If over 5'4 you have to duck on the stairs. Built when people were generally much shorter). I thought the days of the suits having pub lunches was over. Clearly not if today was anything to go by. All men in groups. And me.

Small box plants in pots were for sale on Aldwych. I was flabbergasted to see a price tag of £75.00. Daylight robbery. £150 to adorn your front step.